


Dated Goodbye

by vaultboii



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Closed Casket, F/M, Reinhardt needs a hug, WHAT IF REINHARDT WAS AT ANA'S FUNERAL, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7965004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultboii/pseuds/vaultboii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The funeral was held Friday.</p><p> </p><p>a story based on speculation if Reinhardt was at Ana Amari's funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dated Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> you can't stop me from writing angst HAHAHAHAHAHAHA-
> 
> here's some more trash

The funeral is held Friday.

It’s not a huge memorial, just the few of Overwatch remains and him, standing against the bitter wind, the harsh sun baring teeth down upon them. The sky isn’t pleased with them doing this on such a merry day; it harshly spits rays of gold into their face, sweat soaking through their stiff tuxedos, their stiff dresses held erect by respect and pride. They all stare ahead; all stare towards their dead companions graves before them.

The funeral had been delayed. It was supposed to be on Monday. However, prices and Talon had taken that from them, and they had acknowledged leaving the ceremony until Friday. For a whole week, he waited to see Ana’s dead face.

No one is here because they want to be. He eyes Torbjorn’s grim face, set in a steel mask so tight he could imagine the veins gritting under the beard, his jaw set like stone. Mercy’s face is blank, but her eyes hold weary; bags underline them, filled with concepts of work he doesn’t want to know. The rest are the same; cold, bitter, tired. They’re all here for the same reason, really. To honour friends. To honour family.

_Friends and family that are not in the coffins._

Jack and Gabriel’s caskets are carried downwards from the center of the Church, closed so tight not even he could pry them apart with his mighty arms. Jack has the pale blue one, the one stained with the Overwatch sign, shining so bright under his own statue that it almost matched the ferocity of the sky above.

Gabriel’s coffin is black. They all knew he loved the colour. Black as the night, it reflects sunlight fiercely, casting it away from it as if it was afraid of the light. No one stares at the man’s tomb; it moves by slowly with the weight of someone best forgotten.

He doesn’t look away. He watches as Jack’s coffin shines brightly by, waltzing through the crowds still holding that old glory to it, the glory that Jack should have died with, even if they could find his body. He watches Gabriel’s casket sulk by, dark as the man supposed to be inside it, bearing heavily upon their casket’s carriers.

And along she comes.

Her casket is dull. No one has bothered to shine it, or polish it; it is dusty with the care of someone’s work done Monday. It’s as dark blue as the ocean’s gaze under the sun’s dying light, as suffocating as the airless seal it’s wrapped in. He can almost taste the staleness around it as it passes by, cold and lifeless.

He can still see her eyes.

His gaze falls down. Mercy’s eyes flick to him, and then there’s her hand on his arm, trying its best to remain light while a heavy weight falls in his chest. “Reinhardt...?” She asks, and it doesn’t make it any better.

He grits his teeth and rears his head up again. “I’m fine.”

The doctor’s mouth opens to retort, but then the trumpets are blaring, and they all fall silent as Jack reaches his departure, where the casket bearers blissfully lower the heavy coffin from their shoulders, straight to the ground. It lies beside the large concreted hole, baby blue Jack resting before finally reaching his end.

He doesn’t say anything when it hits the ground of concrete, and the glowing white beam surrounds it in more preservation, sustaining the empty coffin from decaying any further. He doesn’t say anything when the same is done for Gabriel, behind the mighty Jack’s blue, hidden in the shadows behind the glorified leader, _almost like the roles of the two in life_.

She doesn’t get the privilege like them. She is moved off center, to a remote area where all the minor soldiers go. Her dark ocean casket swims through the crowd, and then it’s dropped from the weary casket carriers, landing with a solid thud onto the ground.

He wants to help. It’s an urge to do something that could at least satisfy the unwanted helplessness. His hands tremble in want, and he grips them steadily. The fight to remain idle is lost. He doesn’t know he’s moving until he’s beside them, and the funeral manager stares at the behemoth heading towards them.

“Sir, I’m not sure if you’re authorized to assist,” one tries to say, stuttering in the feverish heat of the sun. Mercy’s gaze is lighting up his back, but it’s soft, understanding. “I’ll have to ask-”

“I can help,” is all he says, and he hoists the back end of her dark blue coffin upwards, light with the weight of her missing body, “I can help.”

When they lower her, she fits perfectly in the ground, and the concrete slab is then pushed over her by his own hands. When it’s done, he doesn’t feel satisfied. He wishes it did.

The memorial ends quickly after that. The trumpeters leave, and then the Church Minister; behind them leave the Overwatch agents, fading into the shadows as quickly as they came.

He doesn’t follow them. Instead, he sits down, right in front of her tomb, where the name ‘ ** _ANA AMARI_** ’ is carved into stone. She would’ve liked the tomb in Arabic. Not English. English was a language she didn’t like, he remembered. She liked her native, wanted to die in her native. Not like him. No, he was the glory hog, charging into battle ready to die away from home, as she nimbly waltzed around his mess and wished for an end.

His hand finds its way into his tight suit pocket, his jacket stretched tight in buttoned fashion. It’s choking him, but he ignores it.

He takes out the locket he bought.

His mother always told him to leave a gift at the gravestone of a loved one. It helped the souls remember, she said, and the gifts pass with them into the afterlife. Those gifts, she told him- when his grandpa passed away and young him was left crying at the headstone- they will treasure it forever.

It’s a cheap trinket. The real Ana would’ve looked at it, and laughed at the pink ugly teapot stamped on it. The real Ana Amari would’ve made fun of him, and never let him hear the end of it. The real Ana Amari would’ve take it, and worn it with her on all battles. The real Ana Amari wouldn’t have said a thing about it to anyone else.

The real Ana Amari is gone.

His hands close over the locket, and he places it right under her name.

He stands up and follows the path away from her tomb.

_Ana Amari is gone._

* * *

When he comes back there two hours later, holding flowers to be delivered to Jack’s site, the locket’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> okay where's my twenty bucks


End file.
